


No Plan Survives Contact With The Enemy

by mific



Series: The Rapture [3]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, F/M, Fanfiction, Kidfic, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9566891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mific/pseuds/mific
Summary: It was a very different world now.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Post-apocalyptic, and there's been major character loss (possibly death) prior to the story. Story contains issues around religious belief.
> 
> For the Apocalypse Kree prompt: "It was a long way to travel, and they weren't sure who would be there when they arrived." This is a non-Stargate Earth-based AU that continues my series The Rapture. This (probably final) part of the series has been a ridiculous number of years coming, so apologies for that. 
> 
> Briefly, this is a post-apocalyptic AU where John and Ronon (ex-cops from what used to be the Vegas PD) are together and are parenting Torren in Teyla's Las Vegas apartment, after Teyla and much of the world’s population—anyone who believed in gods or supernatural beings—vanished in beams of white light up into alien spaceships. Rodney worked at Area 51 and knew Teyla, but not John or Ronon. After "the Rapture”, he liberated a Humvee and drove to Teyla’s place, and has now joined forces with Ronon and John. In this story they hit the road, as it's too hard to survive in Vegas any more with easily-scavenged supplies running low. Rodney's heard about this place in Colorado, though . . .

~=~=~=~

It took most of a week to get ready for the trip north to Cheyenne Mountain.

Too long, in Ronon's view, with the Hummer parked outside like a big black chunk of survivor-candy. Ronon spent a lot of time guarding it during the day, and watching over McKay as he checked the Hummer mechanically and got it ready for a longer trip. Hummers weren't really made for sleeping in, but they'd make up a bed for Torren there to keep him safe—the rest of them could sleep under the stars, or under the Humvee.

McKay and Sheppard bickered a lot about the best route and likely obstructions and dangers on the way, but McKay pitched in readily enough, and he had some good ideas about maximizing their storage. Also, he knew explosives. One evening Ronon came inside, off Hummer-watch, to find a bizarre domestic scene—John and Torren at one end of the kitchen table smeared with rice gruel, and McKay at the other end assembling small incendiary devices and pipe-bombs in bottles and tin cans.

"That safe?" Ronon nodded at the stuff McKay was packing into the containers.

"Hopefully not," McKay said, not looking at him. "Or I don’t know why I'm bothering."

Ronon tilted his chin at Torren. "Making them here, I mean. And traveling with them." He hung up his coat and wiped his face and hands on a damp towel.

McKay glanced up at him with narrowed eyes. "Of course it's highly unsafe, because I have a death-wish and my entire aim in life is to take you two and Teyla's son out with me in a last, messy conflagration!"

"That'd be a no, then," Ronon said, ignoring the sarcasm. He figured that'd piss McKay off more than anything.

"Of course it's a no! Unlike some people, I'm not a complete moron."

"Whoa there. C'mon, kids, let's play nice around the baby." John set the dish of gruel aside and wiped Torren's face. "McKay said the things are safe until he fits them with detonators, Ronon." He lifted Torren up and Ronon took him and bounced him a little, making the kid gurgle. He settled Torren on his hip.

"Wasn't me started it," Ronon said, knowing he was being childish. He was so _done_ with Vegas; he wanted to hit the road.

"Oh come _on_ –" McKay started, but John cut in.

"Guys, guys. We're gonna be traveling in close quarters, facing a shitload of unknowns. Dial it down, okay?"

Ronon pulled a face. "Yeah, sorry. I'm just antsy."

John nodded. "Tomorrow, right? Crack of dawn." He waved a hand at the storage cupboard. "Now, as a small leaving-Vegas celebration, I saved us three packets of ramen."

"Ooh, _ramen_ ," McKay said eagerly.

~=~=~=~

John drove, with Ronon riding shotgun, rifle propped by his knee and their side arms fully loaded. Ronon had rolled down his window and he breathed in deeply, enjoying the breeze on his face, glad they were moving.

McKay was in the bench seat behind them, leaning forward to keep up a running commentary. Torren was strapped into a child-carrier beside him and the compartments they'd customized further back were packed with supplies and water containers. Torren had squalled a little when they set off but the motion soon lulled him, and he was mostly quiet.

"It's my vehicle, so I still don't see what right you have to, to _hijack_ it right out from under me," McKay was muttering, glancing over to make sure he hadn't woken Torren. "You can't be _that_ much of a better driver than I am. I did make it to Teyla's place from Area 51, after all."

"Yeah, across nice flat desert, not through the obstacle course the highways are gonna be. Anyway, you got the most important job, back there with the baby." John sounded tense as he took them off the tarmac of Route 15 once again, bumping across sand and low-lying scrub to bypass a crashed lorry that had spilled crated whiteware across the highway. Many of the boxes had split, refrigerators and washing machines smashed in a slew of rusting metal and shattered plastic. They wouldn't get much further on 15—a few miles ahead of them debris from the crashed 747 would fill every lane.

"Anyway," Ronon said, to shut the two of them up, "You're our navigator." He grinned at John. "Sheppard's got no damn sense of direction—he's a city boy."

"That's what GPS is for," protested John, shooting him a dirty look. There was a pause. " _Was_ for," John muttered.

"Well," McKay said, "the data's still there if you've got a scanner to access it but it's increasingly unreliable. The GPS satellites themselves will last maybe ten years in orbit, but their clocks are ground-synced and the whole network used to be run by the US Air Force. So the system's degraded now that it's been several months since . . ."

"Yeah, the military's a mess from what we heard," John said. "Lot of military types were believers so they were all taken, and plenty of bases are cut off or they've gone rogue." The lack of GPS was why they'd collected every map they could find in the first few weeks, knowing they'd have to get out of Vegas at some point. Rodney had them all spread out in the back seat.

"How far to the turn-off?" Ronon asked, turning to look over his shoulder.

"Five kilometers to where Route 93 branches off to the north," replied McKay.

"What's that in miles?"

"Save me from metrically-challenged Americans!" McKay grumbled, rolling his eyes. Then he stiffened and peered up at the roof of the Hummer anxiously. "Not that I was implying that any, er, higher _power_ existed or should save me, because obviously I'm an ath–"

" _McKay,_ " Ronon growled.

"Yes yes, right. So that's 3.1 _miles_ to the Route 93 turn-off. Then we go north-east for about 25 miles until we hang a right at Coyote Springs onto Route 168. Then another 22 miles south-east in a big triangle back to Route 15 again, near Moapa. We'll be way past the 747 debris by then, heading up to clip the corner of Arizona and on into Utah." He paused, frowning. "Hmmm. I wonder how many of the Latter Day Saints got left behind? I'm betting there were a few."

"Yeah, but we can't stay on the main highway too far up into Utah. It's the fastest way to Colorado, sure, but Salt Lake City'd be too risky." John slowed to ease them across a shallow ditch as they rejoined Route 15. "Need to avoid larger population centers, unless there's no other way through."

"If we take a right and head west on Route 70 there aren't any big places before Grand Junction, really. We can turn off to the south at Crescent Junction and cut through the forests and into Colorado, then head north to avoid Pueblo. It brings us out bang at Colorado Springs. It's more isolated if we avoid the cities, though. I mean, not so many towns and people, yes, but also not many places we could get supplies or help, if we had problems."

Ronon grunted. "Can't rely on anyone. People are unknowns, a risk, and they won't help us anyway, even if we need it."

"Let's try not to need it, then," John said, and they lapsed back into silence, chewing on that.

It was a long way to go, Ronon thought, but they had no choice. They had to get somewhere safer if they were going to raise a kid.

~=~=~=~

Despite Rodney's worries about negotiating built-up areas, St George, which was right on the Utah side of the Utah-Arizona border, didn't cause them any problems. Rodney'd pored over the maps as John drove, weighing and discarding potential hazards, and he guided them temporarily off Route 15 and away from the city center on something called a Parkway that cut east then north before rejoining the main route—now called the Veterans Memorial Highway. The Parkway ran by the local airport, which might have been a risk if any planes had come down on the blacktop, but none had. Mostly, it was just more tedious driving through wastelands of sagebrush or wastelands of dried-up fields, dead from lack of irrigation. John had briefly been distracted by the 'Airport' signs and wanted to look for planes, but Rodney and Ronon had vetoed that as unlikely to turn up anything useful, and too risky, so they'd driven on, John's shoulders set in a sulky hunch.

Before they rejoined Route 15, Rodney directed John to a lake—actually a reservoir—called Quail Creek. There was an old refreshment and picnic area there, long since ransacked and abandoned, and they stopped for a break and a meal, John or Ronon on guard with the rifle while the others had a quick dip in the lake. Well, Ronon swam, and John fooled about with Torren in the shallows, making the baby chuckle and babble as he kicked his plump legs in the water. Rodney, well aware he was no muscled Adonis like the other two, rolled up his jeans and waded, and splashed water onto his face and neck. He looked out at the lake as they ate canned baked beans and packaged nuts and raisins, and Ronon heated water on a camping stove for Torren's milk and gruel, and to make tea.

"Why wouldn't people have settled here?" Rodney asked, nibbling peanuts, thankful his allergy was just to citrus. He waved a hand at the expanse of water. "I mean, surely there are fish out there?"

"Yeah, they stocked these man-made lakes with trout, catfish, bass, all that," John said, carefully detaching Torren's fist from his hair. "Easy, Tiger." He looked around at the flat countryside and low rolling hills. "People might still visit here to fish, but maybe it was too isolated and hard to fortify. Bound to be roving loners and armed bands, even here."

They'd seen no one but Rodney shivered, thinking about what might be out in the wilderness. Humans were definitely the apex predator for other humans, in this brave new world. "I guess. Hey, Ronon, can I have coffee instead of tea? I packed some in the Hummer."

"Get it yourself," Ronon grunted.

Too soon, they were under way again through grey-brown dusty sameness, the lake a distant blue dream. Rodney helpfully tried to break up the boredom by educating John and Ronon about the theories he'd been working on at Area 51 until Ronon inexplicably—because how could wormholes and n-dimensional space-time vortices not be fascinating?—threatened to deck him. Other than threats of violence from Neanderthals, things were uneventful as they traversed, or skirted where possible, a few smaller places like Cedar City, Enoch and Parowan. The need for constant vigilance by driver and front passenger was wearying, though, with intermittent abandoned vehicles looming into view and needing an off-road detour to avoid—it limited their speed as well. Eventually, they were south-west of the Fishlake National Forest, the distant tree-covered foothills offering some relief from the endless vista of baked earth and sagebrush, and Rodney directed John off the main highway onto a smaller road, heading up toward Beaver township. He was hopeful that a route through the forests and the National Park would make for a safer, if lonelier, journey to Colorado.

In hindsight, they should have been more suspicious of the fallen tree, but this was a forestry area and a logging truck had crashed into the roadside gully when its driver was taken, leaving a jumble of logs like oversized pick-up sticks on the verge, one long trunk blocking both lanes.

They slowed to a halt some distance back, debating how to get past the obstacle. "Not enough room on the other side of the road before that gully drops away," Ronon said, peering out his window. "And it's a mess of trunks and branches." Rodney grimaced. He'd checked the off-road tire repair kit and knew their supplies were limited, plus there was no way to re-inflate tires these days except for a hand-pump.

"Can't risk a puncture," John agreed. "But that tree's right across to the hillside in this lane. No way around."

"Gonna have to move it," Ronon said.

"You'll never shift that log by yourself," Rodney said, frowning. Even the three of them together might not be able to, and they couldn't leave the baby and all their–

"This is a Hummer, McKay. It's got a winch." Ronon shot him a sardonic glance, knowing he'd rewired the electric winch mechanism after mounting it on the rear bumper. Rodney rolled his eyes. So he was a little forgetful sometimes, under pressure. He was only human.

"You'd still have to go out there to attach the cable," John said, chewing his lip. "I dunno . . ."

"Doesn't look like an ambush. Driver got raptured, I reckon," Ronon said, shrugging.

"Yes, well," Rodney said nervously, "the most effective ambushes _don't_ look like ambushes, do they?"

"You want we should head back and find another road?" Ronon looked dubious. "Gas is only gonna last so long." They weren't sure if they had enough with them to make it all the way to Colorado Springs. It depended on a fairly straight run, without too much doubling-back.

John considered all this, brow furrowed. "Okay. I don't like it, but if we cover you . . ."

"Turn the Humvee around first," Rodney suggested. "In case you need a quick getaway if it goes south. Also for the winch."

"So's to leave Ronon behind more easily?" John asked, an angry edge to his voice. Ronon snorted.

"No, I didn't mean, I wasn't–" Rodney spluttered.

"Can it, McKay," Ronon rumbled. "He's right, John. More important you guys and the kid get away if it's a trap." John looked like he wanted to debate that, shooting a narrow glance at Rodney.

"I can drive it," Rodney said, a little defiantly. He waved at John. "I mean, you're better with a gun than me so you'd be best to cover Ronon. I drove the damn thing from Area 51 all the way, and if we turn it I won't have to back up, which I admit isn't my forte–"

"Alright, _jeez,_ " John snapped. "We'll turn her, Rodney'll get in the driver's seat, and I'll cover Ronon."

It was a 3-point maneuver until the Hummer was facing away, engine idling. Ronon got out, gun in hand, and came around the vehicle to John's door. John swung himself out and Rodney clambered awkwardly across the central console into the driver's seat.

By the time Rodney'd gotten settled and adjusted the seat, John had Ronon's head in a hard one-handed grip and was kissing him fiercely. "Goddam watch yourself out there."

"Count on it," Ronon said, clapping John's shoulder. He turned and unhitched the winch grapple from its mounting, walking away with the cable spooling out behind him. Rodney kept the engine idling; John was behind the half-open passenger door, rifle raised.

At first Rodney thought they'd managed it okay, watching Ronon through the rear-view mirror as he looped the cable around the top end of the tree-trunk. Then John shouted and the rifle fired, shockingly loud with the door open. Rodney's foot almost slipped on the brake, which would have been a disaster for John and Ronon both.

"What? what is it?" Rodney yelled in a panic, unable to see enough through the mirror, just that Ronon wasn't visible.

More shots, and answering gunfire, then John lunged back into the Hummer and slammed the door. "Fucking ambush, _go go go!"_

Rodney floored it and the Hummer's wheels spun, then caught and the vehicle strained as the cable tightened. "We're hooked to the goddamn tree!" Rodney screamed, "It won't–"

But it did. The huge tree ripped free and pivoted where Ronon had attached the cable, scraping and bumping along behind them as they lurched forward a few yards, then its branches pulled free of the logging debris as they dragged it away down the road's faded center line.

"Stop!" John shouted, slashing down his hand, and Rodney stopped, panting. In the back, Torren was wailing, frightened.

"Stay here." John was out of the cab and gone, back down the road. Rodney sat there shaking, his heart pounding. He twisted around because what the fuck was John doing, and where was Ronon? He couldn't see much past their stores filling the back, so he tried ineffectively to shush Torren. Moments later he felt a clunk as the cable returned to its housing, then John wrenched the driver's door open. "Over," he ordered, and Rodney scrambled back into the passenger seat, banging his knee painfully on the console.

"Ronon? Is he–"

"Bastards dragged him off up the hill on this side. Must've been waiting." John thrust the rifle at Rodney then forced the Hummer into a ragged turn, aiming it back at the now-cleared road, covered in smaller limbs and twigs.

"Wait, you're taking us _back_ there?" Rodney yelped. "What if they're still–"

"Not fucking wasting this," John said through gritted teeth. "Get us through, then I'm going to get Ronon."

"But why would they kidnap him anyway?" Rodney asked plaintively, because none of this made sense. Not much had, since the change, except physics, and even physics wasn't as comforting as it had been.

"Keep that fucking gun on them," John ordered, so Rodney did, but the hillside was bare, with no sign of Ronon or his captors. It wasn't very high, just a cutting where the road had been driven through, weathered over many years into a slope men could scramble down, even if it had been too steep for the Humvee. John drove until they were well clear of the cutting, then pulled over and sat, breathing heavily, hands clenched on the wheel. Torren had stopped wailing, and was sniffling and hiccuping. John looked back at him a little desperately. "Little guy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll get him back." There were tear-tracks on John's cheeks. Rodney swallowed and looked away.

John wiped his face off with his forearm. "You gotta stay here and watch the baby, okay? I'll take the rifle and leave you the sawn-off. It doesn't take much aiming."

"Right," Rodney said, his mouth dry. "What if you . . ." he waved his hand in a worst-case-scenario flail.

"We'll be back before dark." John shot him a look. "If we're not, well." He sighed. "Take Torren and stick to the plan. Don't leave him and come after us. You got that?"

"Yes, but–"

"Just fucking _do_ it, McKay," John said tightly. "I'm not leaving Ronon behind."

"No, no of course n–" Rodney bent and scrabbled in a box at his feet, finding one of his home-made pipe bombs and pressing it on John. "You might need a diversion. Just push this button. You've got five seconds after pushing it before–"  He made an exploding gesture with both hands.

John blew out a breath. "Yeah, okay, thanks." He nodded at Rodney, then loped off into the low, rolling hills.

By the time Rodney thought to check his watch, who knew how much time had passed, so he had no real idea how long John had been gone. The hours dragged by, and it seemed he'd been waiting forever, nerves stretched to the limit, but then what did _he_ know about how long a rescue took? If John had even been _able_ to rescue Ronon, panic whispered in his ear. There might be hordes of bandits—John and Ronon might already be lying in a bloodstained heap for coyotes and crows to feast on. Were there coyotes in Utah? Were there wolves?

Torren helped him hang on to sanity. Rodney climbed into the back seat and cradled him, crooning and rocking the heavy bundle and giving Torren a bottle Ronon had filled at their rest stop. In the end, exhausted and terrified, lulled by the baby's sweet-smelling warmth, he half dozed, shotgun propped against his knee.

He jolted awake to a distant sound. The bomb going off, or just a dream? Heart pounding, he gently eased Torren into the baby-seat and slid out, clutching the sawn-off and creeping down to peer around the rear bumper. It was twilight outside, the sky a rich blue, orange-streaked in the west. There was nothing to be seen, just long shadows. He paced up and down by the Hummer, swinging the shotgun and shivering; it got cold fast, once the sun went down. The sound of distant scrabbling made him freeze. The kidnappers! Coming for him and the baby, no doubt. He sucked in a ragged breath and chanced a look around the end of the Hummer.

A dark, lurching, misshapen thing rose up against the skyline. Trembling, Rodney raised the gun and croaked, his throat dry, "Stop or I'll shoot! Don't think I won't!" The barrel wavered a little, and he peered into the shadows. The thing cursed and lurched closer, up the shallow incline by the road.

"John?" Rodney took a step forward. "Oh no, what–"

"Help me with him," John panted, letting Ronon's legs slide to the ground from his shoulder, bracing his torso against the side of the Hummer. "He's hurt."

They manhandled him into the back seat beside Torren, and Rodney got bedding from the back to wedge him in. Ronon was unconscious, his face bruised and the side of his shirt dark with blood. The lower part of the shirt had been ripped off and bound around his ribs as a rough bandage.

"Oh my god, what did they do to him? Why'd they take him, anyway?"

"C'mon," John said. "We have to get out of here. Some of them might only be stunned."

He drove grimly for five minutes, then Rodney said "Look, there's a town up here, Beaver I think it's called. Maybe we could–"

"Can't risk it," John muttered. "Probably where the bastards're based. Can we go around?"

"No, it's too small. I was planning to get you to make a right there anyway, where a smaller road heads east, through the forests." A couple of outlying houses loomed up, dark, probably abandoned. There were no stalled cars in the road which was just as well with no streetlights to help them navigate, but in the heavy dusk the Humvee's headlights trumpeted their presence. John switched them off, slowing until he got his night vision, then took them through the small town as fast as he could, hanging a right where Rodney indicated, gunning the Hummer on through shadowy fields and into the forest's gloom before risking the headlights again.

Strange, Rodney thought bitterly, how they now feared the places of men, and felt safer in the wilderness.

After another hour they pulled over at a picnic area sign and parked for the night well away from the road.

Ronon had surfaced, groaning, a couple of times, but was drowsy and disoriented. "Concussion," John said. They washed his wound as best they could in the dark, re-bandaged it and got him settled in the Hummer after John persuaded him to drink some water and swallow a capsule. Once Ronon was bedded down, curled on his side across the padded front seats, they spread a groundsheet and bedrolls in the lee of the vehicle and lit the little gas burner to make tea, then heated a can of stew to share.

Finally, John sighed. "Fucking religious fanatics. I watched them till it got darker, heard what they were saying. Eight guys, and I managed to get most of them with the bomb, only had to shoot a couple—thanks for that, we might not have made it out otherwise." He sipped his mug of sweet tea and stroked Torren's head; the baby was bundled in his lap, asleep. "They were gonna sacrifice him. Had a goddamn cross all ready to nail him to. Some shit about them being sinners 'cause they weren't taken, so they 'tithe the road'—catch travelers and make 'em die for their sins. Fuckers _want_ to be raptured, can you believe it? Dickheads." He shook his head angrily. "They knocked Ronon around pretty bad—his head, and that wound along his ribs is something to do with the hole in Jesus's side. Not so deep though, I checked. It's nasty, but just a flesh wound."

"But they didn't?" Rodney waved a hand, spreading his fingers to show the palm. "In his hands? Or his wrists?"

"Bang nails in? Nah, I distracted them in time. Threw a good-sized rock to draw them off then doubled back and took 'em out with the bomb and my rifle once they were away from Ronon." He stretched his back and shoulders, wincing. "Jeez, he's heavy. Wasn't sure I was gonna make it back."

"Do we, er, have antibiotics?" Rodney warmed his hands on his mug of coffee. Most drugstores were tapped out these days, stripped bare.

"Yeah, that's what I gave him. Not sure if we'll have enough, though. Really need antiseptic to clean him up properly. Or alcohol—vodka, maybe." Rodney frowned, yeah, good luck with that. The liquor had all vanished in the first months, as well.

"I'll take first watch," John said, and Rodney realized he was right—they couldn't both sleep at once, not in the place the world had become.

"No, I will. You're exhausted and I napped a little in the Hummer while I waited. I've got this." Rodney patted the sawn-off, only then realizing he'd taken to carrying it about with him everywhere.

John gave him a long look, then nodded and hunkered down in his bedroll curled around Torren, a survival blanket pulled over them both for warmth.

Rodney sat in the chilly dark, one hand on his gun and his back to a tree, twitching at odd noises from the night-time forest and trying to do Teyla's breathing exercises.

~=~=~=~

Ronon was literally like a bear with a sore head the next morning, but at least he was alive.

Rodney tried to shine a flashlight in his eyes and got clouted for his trouble. "Hey, hey there, Big Guy, let us check you over," John murmured soothingly, and managed a little better until Ronon thrust him away, groaning. "I think his pupils are okay," John said doubtfully.

"It'll just be concussion," Rodney said with fake confidence. If it wasn't, Ronon was dead.

The wound was a worry. In the end, they decided not to disturb the wrappings John had put on the previous night. They didn't have much in the way of bandages, or enough water to spare to wash it thoroughly.

"Look," Rodney said. "There's a ski resort up on the mountain here, further up this road." John shot him a dubious look. "Yes, I know it's probably been ransacked but there might be supplies stashed away, and people might not have fortified it, what with the cold and snow. Last winter up here would've been hard to survive, compared to living on the flat where it's warmer." He waved a hand at the mountains. "I mean, even bed linen'd be useful, for bandages."

"Not if it gets us shot," John muttered, but the road went right by the resort, so in the end they checked it out.

"Careful," John whispered as the Hummer's engine fell silent, and Rodney saw the main door was ajar, not a good sign. There was no noise though, and no signs of habitation, and it was only to be expected that scavengers would have been through at some point. John signaled something baffling to Rodney, probably meaning he should stay with the Hummer to guard Torren and Ronon, which had been Rodney's plan, anyway. Rodney nodded.

After an anxious wait, John emerged, rifle in hand, and beckoned. Rodney locked Torren in the Hummer and they went exploring, finding the place deserted, the main lodge and the outbuildings. It was also picked clean, in terms of any alcohol or first aid gear. After a lot of searching they did find a can of methylated spirits hidden in a shed, and there was plenty of unused bed-linen, even if it did smell damp and mildewed. John helped Ronon out of the Humvee and onto a blanket on the ground, and gingerly unpeeled the temporary bandage. He set several water bottles at hand and began washing Ronon's wound, sending Rodney off to try and find a faucet that still worked, to replenish their supply. There was no water pressure, though. Up here, it was probably on an electric pump.

Rodney had given up on faucet-checking , knowing it wasn't going to work unless he found a generator that still had fuel—vanishingly unlikely, and even then the pipes had most likely exploded—and was poking through the bedroom wing looking for a hot water cylinder when he heard a faint meow from behind a closed door. He turned the doorknob gingerly and a slender tabby slipped out, mewing and twining around his legs.

"What the?" Rodney crouched down and stroked the small cat, noting it was slender because of youth, not starvation. "Well, hello," he greeted it, ridiculously pleased as it smooched his hand. "Nice to see you, too." It must be an excellent hunter to have survived all alone. Born since the change, too, so there was probably a colony of feral cats hereabouts, if they'd made it through the winter. It was remarkably tame for a wild cat.

He pushed the bedroom door open, expecting to see an open window and weather damage, but there was nothing, the room musty but untouched. How had the animal gotten trapped here, and once stuck in the room, how had it survived? There was no sign the cat had used the room as a dirt-box, but he looked into the ensuite—he'd had a cat once who was fastidious and used the shower stall for her business if he hadn't changed her dirt-box recently. The bathroom was undisturbed as well.

The cat ran over to a long wardrobe behind a panel of sliding wooden doors and meowed. Rodney stiffened, then raised his shotgun. Of course. "You'd better come out," he called, trying to sound like an apex predator. "I've got a gun."

"For fuck's sake, don't shoot me," said a muffled voice. A muffled _female_ voice. She sounded kind of pissed, which was dumb of her, because, hello, _gun_.

"I won’t, but don’t try anything stupid," he called, realizing he was falling back on action movie clichés but unable to come up with anything suave in the heat of the moment. Why was he even trying to be suave? Rodney realized he hadn't seen a woman since Area 51, and even there, they'd been tough military types, plus a few scientists like Simpson, and he was too disgusted with her totally wrong notions about string theory to find her remotely attractive. She'd been taken away by the soldiers anyway, when it all went to hell, and he hadn't been able to stop them. He shook off the painful memories and focused on the sliding door.

The girl who stepped out had long blonde hair in a messy ponytail and was dressed, as were most people these days, in rumpled hiking gear: plaid seemed to have avoided being raptured to an alarming degree. She eyed him warily. "You mind pointing that somewhere else?"

"Oh yes, so you can use some sort of kung fu move on me and steal my gun," Rodney sneered.

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know any kung fu moves." She bent and picked up the tabby, cradling it in her arms as it rubbed itself ecstatically against her. "Way to out us to the nasty man, Snookums," she muttered, glaring over the cat's furry head at Rodney.

"I'll have you know that I'm not in the least nasty," Rodney spluttered. "In fact, I'm an astrophysicist."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yeah, right." Rodney pursed his lips in annoyance, noticing the lines at the corners of her eyes for the first time, probably made worse by her thinness. Not a girl then, a woman. He sighed. "Look, my name is Dr. Rodney McKay and I and my companions–" . . . too late he recalled that his companions numbered only one able-bodied man, plus a concussed behemoth and an infant. He probably shouldn't give too much information to a stranger.

"There are more of you?" Her eyes darted about, but they were some distance from the Humvee. She sighed. "Guess there would be—most people don't try to make it alone."

"So, do you have?" Rodney let the shotgun's barrel drift downward and waved his free hand. "People?"

She shook her head, looking close to tears. "Not any more. They got taken by those creeps down in Beaver."

"Oh, the religious nuts?" Rodney frowned at her. "You were lucky to get away."

She swallowed. "Yeah, I know. We'd escaped from a fortified commune in Salt Lake City, me and two other medics from University Hospital. They'd pretty much kept us as slaves, doing their doctoring. We headed south on the main highway on trail-bikes, but those fuckers ambushed us just south of Beaver. A road block. I was the only one who got away, so I headed east into the forest, ended up here. Found Snookums in the trees here, half starved – she was too young to catch rats then, but she's a good mouser now." She sighed. "I had to learn to hunt as well." She saw him recheck her for a firearm. "No, not a gun. A crossbow."

"Hmm. We ran into a similar roadblock; must be their MO," Rodney said. "They took one of my party, Ronon, but John rescued him." He paused. "Wait, did you say you were a doctor? Ronon's injured."

"I don't have much with me," she said, sounding weary. "We took a lot of medical supplies when we left but only a third of it was in my gear. Ramon had all the analgesics, and Barry had the saline and dressings. We should have packed better, but we were new to that sort of tactical thinking . . ." She trailed off, then bent and put the cat down. Could its name really be Snookums? Rodney shuddered. "Okay, lead the way." She took a step, then thrust out her hand. "I'm Jennifer. Jen Keller." Rodney transferred the sawn-off to his left hand and they shook.

John was predictably paranoid, scrambling up with his rifle trained on Jennifer the moment they emerged from the front door. "It's okay, it's okay, calm down, jeez," Rodney said, stepping in front of her. "She's by herself. Those monsters down in Beaver got her friends." He gestured between them. "Dr. Jennifer Keller, meet John Sheppard. That's Ronon, on the ground, and Torren's in the Hummer."

"Dr. Keller?" John squinted at her. "You an MD, or just a scientist like Rodney?"

"I'm not 'just' anything, Sheppard," Rodney protested. "My explosives expertise already saved your bacon. I mean it's not like MDs have to deal with, I don't know, exploding _tumors_ , or anything!"

Jennifer had approached and was kneeling beside Ronon. "I'm an MD, yes, but I don't have many supplies." She gestured at the blood-stained pillowcase John had laid over the side of Ronon's chest. "May I?"

"Be my guest." John fished in his breast pocket as she lifted a corner. "I've been giving him these since last night." He held out the bottle.

"Flucloxacillin, okay, that's a good option. Let's see what we're dealing with . . ." Rodney edged closer and peeked at the wound she'd exposed. The blood made him feel sick.

Ronon's eyes flickered open and he gazed up at Jennifer. "Pretty," he said vaguely and half-raised a hand.

"He's concussed," John explained, sounding a little pissed.

Jennifer frowned and gently slid her hands under Ronon's head, palpating his scalp. When her fingers reached the top of his head Ronon winced. "Ow." She rested his head back on the blanket and he screwed his eyes up. "Too bright." John took aviator shades from his pocket and slid them over Ronon's nose.

"Has he been vomiting?" Jennifer asked. "Complained of a headache? Confusion?"

"No vomiting, a little muddled, and a headache, yeah," John said.

Jennifer leaned over Ronon's face, "Sorry, Ronon, these have to go for a second. She lifted off the sunglasses. "Open your eyes for me." He did, briefly, then shut them in pain and she put the glasses back on. "Pupils are equal. It probably is a concussion."

"What about the wound?" Rodney asked anxiously.

"It'll need stitches. I can do it but we need to clean it properly. I don't have antiseptic—that was on Ramon's bike."

"We found some meths," John said, reaching behind him for the bottle.

"Good, that'll do. Rodney, my gear's in the top shelf of that wardrobe where you found me. In a pack."

"Uh huh . . . Oh, right. I'll go get it."

The tabby cat came with him and this time she let him pick her up and bury his nose in her fur. He felt instantly better. "You can't possibly be called Snookums," he told her seriously, "That's no name for a self-respecting cat. Torren's going to love you, but you're not going to like the Humvee, and Sheppard'll be stupid about it, but we're not going to take any notice of _him_ , are we?" She put a paw up to bat his stubbled chin. "No we are not."

Three hours later, after Ronon had been cleaned up, sutured and properly bandaged, and after a meal and several sotto voce arguments with Sheppard about the cat, Rodney angrily repacked the back of the Hummer with Rubik's Cube-like ingenuity to create a cat-space at the rear to contain her so she couldn't get out any of the windows or interfere with John's driving. It also made some room on the back seat for Jennifer, so with Ronon wedged in drowsily on one side of Torren, and Jennifer on the other, they were on the road again, Rodney once more literally riding shotgun.

Torren cried off and on, but he hushed whenever he saw Jennifer, staring wide-eyed at her as though she'd beamed down from outer space. She regarded him in much the same way.

"I'd've thought you'd be good with him," Rodney said, puzzled, twisting to peer back between the seats.

Jennifer's mouth tightened. "I was a high-flying internist, surgeon and researcher, Rodney, not a pediatrician."

"Huh," Rodney said thoughtfully. Beside him, John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

~=~=~=~

Ronon's memory was shit for the time after the religious crazies brained him, but the doc said that was normal. He vaguely recalled drifting in and out of sleep, his head splitting and ribs aching, bone deep. He came pretty much right on the second day after the ambush, still in a lot of pain, but at least his head was clear and he didn't feel like puking all the time. They didn't have anything stronger than Nurofen, but he didn't want to sleep all day anyway, so he gritted his teeth and bore it. 

The day after that he reclaimed the front passenger seat. McKay mouthed off a lot, but from the way he was eyeing the doc, Ronon didn't think he minded sitting in back with her too much. Lucky break for them all, running into her out here.

They were long past the ski lodge forest by now, and Ronon saw on the map how much ground they'd covered, McKay taking them east then north across dried up farmland that was turning back into sagebrush scrub, dark ridges of hills breaking the horizon here and there. Sheppard told him that while Ronon was still out for the count they'd made it right up to Route 70, a two lane highway heading almost due east, to Grand Junction. Apparently there'd been a couple of multi-car pile-ups on 70, but luckily they'd been able to navigate around them both.

McKay had taken them off the highway well before that, unwilling to risk a large center, directing Sheppard south at Crescent Junction, all the way down to where the road crossed the Colorado river. They'd stopped briefly to refill their water containers at the river and then Sheppard had doubled back to camp overnight in the Arches National Park. Sheppard said the red sandstone rock formations were spectacular, but Ronon didn't remember them.

The roads were often in bad repair, with cracked, deteriorating asphalt, but the Humvee took it all in its stride. Sometimes they saw people working small patches of land as they shot past a township or isolated farm. Mostly, when that happened, the people ran and hid, although one time a little girl in a field jumped up and down and waved at Ronon. The right side was where his stitches were, so he just gave her a grin, and hoped she'd be okay. Hoped she didn't wave at the wrong sort of passers-by, one day.

It all blurred together, the long hours of driving, the need to watch for stalled vehicles in the road, occasional clusters of what looked like abandoned houses, endless vistas of dusty grass that used to be fields. Sagebrush scrub blurred into low hills smudged with vegetation that in the distance looked like giant mounds of mixed olives. Months since he'd had any olives, Ronon realized; he could barely remember the taste. He wondered why he'd even thought of them, but it was probably the low-level hunger they'd all learned to live with.

John traded off driving with Rodney, even with Keller for a while once they learned she'd been with Médecins Sans Frontières for a year and had gotten used to jeeps and trucks. Ronon resented not being able to help, but whenever he lifted his arm it hurt like a son of a bitch and the doc said she'd make him ride in back with the goddamn cat if he popped his stitches. She was kind of feisty, even if she looked like she was barely out of school. He thought about the kid who'd waved at him. She'd never go to school.

They stopped for a noon meal somewhere nameless. A big tree for shade, nothing else within sight. Tea—coffee for McKay—a handful of jerky, dried raisins, and tomato soup from a packet, thinned so they all got a little. The cat drank water and crunched kibble—Ronon guessed there'd been cat food in the ski lodge's cupboards and no one desperate enough to eat it yet. That'd change. The doc checked Ronon's bandage and gave him a capsule while her cat played with McKay, chasing twigs. After Torren had been fed and had rolled around on a rug and gurgled excitedly at the wary cat, John rested his head on Ronon's thigh and napped, Torren snoozing face down on his chest. John was tense from all the driving. Ronon gave him a scalp massage.

The sky was turning orange when they found an isolated farmhouse for the night, somewhere past Gunnison. It had been scavenged bare but the beds were clean, if musty, and McKay found carrots, gone to seed spinach, and an apple tree in the garden. They ate well that night, hungry for the fresh food, staying in the big living room, not wanting to spread out too much.

With four of them to take shifts on watch, John and Ronon got to sleep in an actual bed. John was careful of Ronon's stitches, so they kissed and kissed, achingly turned on for what felt like hours until Ronon broke and made John slick himself up with their hoarded bottle of coconut oil and ride him, hands clamped on Ronon's shoulders to keep him still so he wouldn't strain his wound and call down the wrath of Keller. It was hot as hell and Ronon tried to be quiet, but John couldn't bend down far enough to kiss his mouth closed, so he balanced on one hand and pressed the other to Ronon's mouth, his palm slick with coconut oil from jerking Ronon off. Ronon's mouth watered involuntarily, and he came, not caring about the fiery burn in his side. They checked the dressing guiltily afterward, but there was no fresh bleeding.

Ronon made John let him take a shift on watch. He was healing; he could stay awake long enough and John was exhausted and needed to sleep. John woke him at midnight and once Ronon had pulled him down for a kiss and John was settled on the mattress in his bedroll, already snoring, Ronon checked on Torren, asleep in a nest of blankets on the floor by their bed. The baby stirred and whimpered, restless in dreams, but Ronon held his breath and he didn't wake up. Ronon ghosted out through the living room, seeing McKay and Keller curled in bedding on the floor in the moonlight shining in through tall windows, the cat a soft ball nestled between them.

He sat out on the old wooden porch in a battered armchair, rifle across his lap. The Humvee was invisible in the shadows under a row of trees. It was a clear night, cold, but he was well bundled in his coat so he was warm enough. After the moon had set, the stars were brilliant. There was less light pollution now, Ronon guessed, with gasoline scarce and the world's airplanes mostly grounded. There must be helicopters or smaller planes flying somewhere but Ronon hadn't seen an aircraft for months. Maybe people had stolen all the aviation gas for heating and Mad Max contraptions.

He shifted position, propped the rifle against the arm of the chair. He liked this place—it was quiet. Too isolated though, and there was no well or river, plus they needed more people. The right people, not religious crazies or jerks trying to set themselves up as medieval warlords. Land they could work, a water supply, and good hunting. He hoped they'd find that at the base McKay knew of, but he doubted it. If it was military, it was probably FUBAR.

The next morning saw them passing through more gone-to-seed pasture and rolling hills, then they were in taller brush, then pine forests. It made Ronon twitchy even though they didn't stop. He felt closed-in after the open farmland, not longer able to see for miles around. He'd gotten used to being able to spot trouble at a distance, and the trees were dark, looming over the road.

By late morning they'd reached a low mountain pass and zoomed through a place called Monarch that McKay said used to be a ski field town, then they were back in open country and Ronon relaxed a little. That turned out to be a rookie mistake, as there was a loud report from the rear and the Hummer swerved, John fighting for control.

"We under attack?" Ronon yelled, tying to check all around but not able to swivel his torso with the wound. John was too busy steering to reply.

He managed to pull them out of a spin, easing them over to the verge, gravel crunching as they skidded to a halt. There was no one around, no houses, but McKay said there was a town, Poncha Springs—or what was left of it—a few miles up the road. Ronon slid out and used the Hummer for cover as he did a full 360-degree sweep to check for snipers, but there was no one except them. It was just a random blow-out, not an ambush.

John and McKay got the wheel off while Ronon stood guard with the rifle. McKay shook his head and made doubtful noises. "I can patch it temporarily, of course," he said, "but I don't know how long that'll hold. It needs a proper repair job, or a fresh tire—and our chances of finding the right sort of tires way out here are ludicrously small."

"How long d'you reckon a proper repair job'll take?" John asked.

"Overnight at least, and that's if I can get the tools and supplies," McKay said, swiping a dusty smear across his forehead with the back of his hand. Ronon stalked over to glower, like that'd make the repair take less time. McKay eyed him balefully and Ronon shrugged and turned away. He couldn't relax. After their days on the road, stopping like this felt dangerous. Too exposed.

McKay and John did a temporary patch and took turns with the hand pump, McKay complaining vociferously about his back all the while. Finally, he decided the tire was good for a few miles at least and they all piled back in. Torren was wailing and Ronon took a turn in the back to rock him quiet.

"Maybe there'll be a car sales place in this Poncho town," McKay said, not sounding very optimistic.

John shot him a skeptical look. "Yeah, 'cause it's a real big place and likely to have a Humvee dealership."

"Well, I don't know, I have no idea what skiers drive!" McKay protested, waving his hands. Ronon glowered some more.

~=~=~=~

What they found was a trailer park. Most had been taken, of course, but a few remained, and it was a huge place—maybe the gas ran out before the motor homes did. They turned in and parked by a cluster of larger ones, although McKay said the tires wouldn't be the right sort for a Humvee. Might be some tools, though. Keller stayed in the Hummer with Torren, and Ronon, John and McKay started poking about among the trailers.

Ronon was in a passageway between some larger motor homes trying a door handle when a short-haired guy almost as tall as he was, but rangier, stepped out from behind the vehicle, pointing a gun at him.

"Hold it right there," the guy said. Ronon snarled, but he couldn't get his rifle up in time, and the passage was too narrow for hand to hand, not with a gun on him.

The guy backed him out into the grassy area between clusters of trailers, and he saw that a blonde woman in jeans and a military-looking parka had an automatic weapon trained on John and McKay. John was tense, his face dark. When Ronon appeared, John took an involuntary step toward him.

"Don't move!" the woman growled, brandishing the gun.

Beside John, McKay's face was pale, his eyes wide, darting between the two strangers.

"Hey, look, if these are your trailers we can hit the road again, no problem," John drawled, with a fake smile that fell far short of his eyes.

"It's just, we got a flat tire, so we wanted–" McKay said, his voice high and nervous.

"Shut it, McKay," John snapped.

The guy behind Ronon had nudged him over toward John, the better to train his rifle on them all. He frowned at McKay. "Are these people forcing you to go with them? Did they abduct you?"

"I, what?" McKay was genuinely perplexed.

"Actually, he hired us to protect him from dicks like you," John said, smirking. Ronon wanted to clip him over the ear.

The tall guy's frown deepened. "Hired you? What are you—private security?"

"Ex-cops," Ronon said, trying to calm everyone down. "From Vegas." He shrugged. "Just trying to get to somewhere safe and we blew a tire. Messed up our plans."

The woman and the tall guy exchanged a look. It was the blonde who spoke. "You have somewhere you know is safe? To go to?"

McKay piped up before they could stop him. "Yes, the NORAD base at Cheyenne Mountain. I'm a physicist from Area 51, so I know about secure–"

"What'd I say about shutting the fuck _up_ , Rodney," John said through gritted teeth. 

The blonde and the tall guy traded glances again. The woman shook her head. "You really don’t want to go there, believe me. Nowhere near Colorado Springs, that whole area. We barely got away ourselves."

"What's wrong with it?" Ronon asked, but he thought he knew. It was what he'd feared.

"A general from Peterson Air Force Base has declared martial law—Landry," the tall guy said. "The Air Force has gotten the place under wraps, what with NORAD, the Academy and Peterson. They triangulated the town pretty thoroughly."

"You're Air Force, though," Ronon said, eyeing them both. They carried themselves like they were military, and the guy was wearing standard issue boots. "You're probably part of it."

"Back in the day, yeah," the guy said, and he looked honest, but you couldn't trust anyone these days. "We were tutors at the Academy, us and some others. We joined up with a bunch of civilian teachers, scientists and the like. We got away before they could press-gang us into their militia." He glanced over at McKay. "You're a scientist? Landry'd want to keep you, for sure." He looked back at Ronon and John. "And ex-cops? He'd definitely want you for his militia."

"Wait, no, but Jen's a doctor!" McKay blurted. John sighed, exasperated. "I bet they'd want to kidnap a doctor," McKay looked panicked.

"She is?" It was the woman. "Yes, I'm afraid they'd definitely detain her and press her into service." She looked up at the guy, who nodded. "Look, we kind of got off to a bad start here. I'm Sam. Used to be Major Carter, but like I said, we, well, I guess we deserted."

"Escaped, more like," the guy said easily, "though I bet Landry'd call us deserters, yeah. Probably shoot us on sight." He smiled. "Hi, I'm Cam Mitchell. Used to be a pilot."

"Well, yes, obviously," McKay said. "Given that you're Air Force."

"What kind of aircraft?" That was John, of course.

"Fighters," Mitchell said. "Not a lot of call for F-16s now, or I hope to hell there won't be even if Landry's a stiff-necked petty dictator. There's no fuel for 'em, these days."

"He thinks he's doing what needs to be done in the . . . crisis," Carter said. "It's his methods I take issue with."

"What d'you mean," Ronon asked. "Torture?"

Carter shrugged. "Not quite . . . look, he kind of lost it when, y'know, civilization collapsed. Got angry when people didn't want to be organized, didn't want to do what they were told and take his orders. Civilians, and some of the cadets and especially the women. He's got kind of draconian ideas about discipline, uses a lot of punishment, and he took all the kids away. Put them in a military nursery to make their parents toe the line."

"But we've got a baby!" McKay said, and yeah, now Ronon wanted to kill him as well.

"Shut the hell up, McKay," Ronon growled. "Fucking can it."

"It's okay. We don't mean you any harm," Carter said, raising a hand placatingly and dropping her gun barrel. Mitchell lowered his weapon as well. "But if you've got a child, you definitely shouldn't go near Colorado Springs. Landry'd take the baby for sure, to force you to work in the militia. You'd get to see the kid, but you'd have no control. It's what he does to make people comply. Takes their kids."

"Like fuck he would," Ronon snarled. "I'd kill him."

"Uh huh," Mitchell said. "That's been tried. Didn't work, and he's got a cadre around him of hard-noses now. Like a Praetorian Guard or somethin'—just, don't go there."

"But where are we going to go instead?" McKay asked unhappily. He was rubbing his hands together, almost wringing them.

Mitchell and Carter exchanged another look. "You could join up with us," she said.

Keller stepped out from behind a trailer, carrying Torren in her arms. He was whimpering ominously, working himself up into a major crying jag. The cat crept along behind her, hiding behind a broken plastic chair. "Join up with who?" Keller asked. She handed Torren off to John. "Sorry, he won't settle. And I was getting kind of antsy too." She looked at the newcomers, noting the guns, but everyone had lowered their weapons. "Hello, I'm Jennifer."

"Oh, right," McKay said. "Ah, Dr. Rodney McKay, double PhDs in astrophysics and engineering." He nodded, like it was shorthand for a bow.

"Ronon."

"And I'm John Sheppard." John rocked Torren to and fro to calm him. "This little guy's Torren."

There was a meow and Ronon looked down to see the cat smooching Keller's ankle. "Oh, and this is Snookums," Keller said.

Rodney grimaced. "Right, so there you have us. Intrepid fighters every one so don't go underestimating us."

Carter's mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"Shall we have a cup of tea?" Keller asked. "Then you can tell us who we might be joining forces with."

Mitchell looked out through the entrance to the trailer park. "Sure. Here are two more of us now." He waved and raised his voice. "Radek? Lorne? Over here!" A distant figure lifted an arm in acknowledgement. Beside him a smaller man helped carry something they'd salvaged.

McKay frowned. "I used to correspond with a Czech guy called Radek something. Zelda. Zelempa. Some damn thing. He was passably intelligent. Misguided about wormhole theory, of course."

"His name's Radek Zelenka," Carter said. "Wait, you're M. R. McKay?" She grinned. "I'm S. A. Carter."

"I thought you were a guy," McKay said. "Also, that paper you wrote about dark matter was full of logic holes."

"Tea," Keller said firmly, rolling her eyes. "You can argue about the universe later." She looked at Mitchell. "Assuming it's safe here?"

He nodded. "Yeah, this town and Salida are fine, other than the odd roaming bad guy. We're well out of range of Landry's militias this far west of Colorado Springs." He shrugged. "We got as far away as we could on foot, given that some of our party were injured. Took us near on two weeks to get here."

"You guys live in a trailer park?" John asked, peering about. Ronon frowned—it felt deserted.

"No, well, yeah, I guess," Mitchell said. "I mean, not here. We salvaged a bunch of trailers and moved 'em up to the farm, a few miles north of here by the Arkansas River. Just until we get cabins built that'll handle the winter better."

Ronon helped Keller set the gas burner up in the lee of the Humvee and pulled out some lunch supplies. When he went to get the others a dark-haired guy—also Air Force, from the look of him—and a short man with glasses and messy hair had joined the group. McKay was chatting animatedly with the short guy. The other one was talking with John and admiring Torren. Ronon drifted in to quietly interpose himself between the baby and the newcomers.

"How do you all get about?" John was asking.

The new guy, Lorne, made a face and pointed at a beat-up old Toyota sedan Ronon had thought was abandoned in among the motor homes. "It's not classy, but it gets us the few miles we need to cover when we come to salvage stuff. What do you guys have?"

"Over there," Ronon said. He indicated with his chin. "Got some food, tea and stuff if you wanna . . ." They wandered over.

"Holy wow, a Hummer," Mitchell said. "Okay, you guys win on ride coolness."

"One of the tires needs fixing, but it'll be okay for a short distance," John said. "This place of yours far?"

Mitchell shook his head. "'bout five miles, due north. A little longer on the roads. There's a farmhouse there and we kind of circled the wagons around it, with the trailers."

"How many of you are there?" Ronon asked, taking Torren from John so John could heat some food for him.

"About fifty, with a few locals from the Springs here who joined us, and other travelers like yourselves who happened by."

Ronon nodded, and sat on the blanket Keller had spread on the long grass. Probably enough to make it defensible. Good farmland around here, and a river, they'd said. "What’s the hunting like?"

Lorne grinned, crouching and accepting a mug of tea. "Pretty good. Game's coming back now the human population's been more than halved. Deer, rabbits, domestic pigs gone feral—they can be nasty if you're not careful."

"Good eating, though," Mitchell said. "We even salted us some bacon last month."

"You have bacon?" McKay's eyes were wide. "Well, that seals it. We're in."

 

~=~=~=~

 

**Epilogue**

Jen was restless and having trouble sleeping, uncomfortable in the summer heat in the third trimester of her pregnancy. She lay on her side and Rodney rubbed her back.

His muscles ached a little as well, from helping build extensions to the farmhouse and a cabin for some newcomers, a family from Salida who used to run a restaurant. The guy was a chef, and had considerably improved the communal meals served up in the farmhouse refectory.

"How's the hot springs project going?" Jen asked drowsily.

"Siler's got ideas about where we can get pipes," Rodney said, working on her lower back. "He says there's some sort of municipal depot outside Salida. Which, since Salida had the hot springs siphoned off to fill their pool back before the change, I mean, it's not like they've got a prior claim to the water if we can figure out how to divert it up here. And the Salida pool's disused now, anyway. It'll take a while to dig a channel for the pipeline, though."

He and Radek had uncapped the thermal springs at Poncha and set up communal bathing tubs there, but even with the horses John and Ronon were training it was inconvenient having their bathhouse five miles away. Most people had no transport and O'Neill, Elizabeth and the rest of the council had reserved the remaining gasoline for emergencies. If they could pipe the hot water up to Trailer Park Farm they'd have a much more comfortable winter. Jen wasn't able to walk that far any more, and the river, fed by mountain snow, was cold all year round. Not that that stopped the kids from splashing in it, and intrepid souls like Ronon from swimming, but Rodney preferred hot baths.

"How's the schoolhouse going?" he asked.

Jen shifted back against him, taking his hand and resting it on her belly. "Daniel said they got the roof beams mostly done today. He says it'll be ready by fall. Then all we have to do is corral the kids who've been running wild all summer."

Rodney grinned. "Yeah, good luck with that. Hey, John said Torren's started talking. He can say 'cat'."

"You never did like calling her Snookums," Jen said, stroking the warm furry body curled against her stomach.

"Cat is a perfectly serviceable name. For a cat."

Jen snorted, but didn't bother arguing. They were quiet for a time, then she shifted and sighed. "Do you ever . . . I guess I'm just maudlin with hormones, but I was thinking about Dad."

"You know he's not there, Jen. And Wisconsin's too far for us to get to, with gas so scarce, and it's much too dangerous–"

She squeezed his hand. "Sure, I know. I didn't mean going there. He was a staunch Baptist; he'd have been taken for sure. He used to worry about me working down in Salt Lake City 'with all those damn Mormons'. Just, we're having his grandchild. I miss him."

Rodney kissed her shoulder. "Yeah. I still think about Jeannie, but Winnipeg's impossible to reach, and it's a city." He shivered. The stories they'd heard about some of the big cities like New York or Chicago . . . "Anyway, I'm sure they were taken as well, with Maddie small enough to believe all sorts of crap and Kaleb sticking up pictures of Buddhist saints around the house. Jeannie . . . well. She must be gone, or . . ."

He rested his forehead on Jen's warm back and sighed. The chances that Jeannie had been left behind or was alive if she hadn't been disappeared were slim to none, and there was no use thinking about it.

Radek had helped him build a stronger radio and he sent out his latitude and longitude with a brief message on their special frequency every week, in a code only Jeannie would know. There was never anything on the line but static. He'd hoped to use the telemetry equipment at NORAD, had even harbored grandiose notions that he and any other scientists who'd survived would be able to work there and eventually understand what had happened with the—he hated to use the stupid evangelical term, even though everyone did. The Rapture. But Colorado Springs was a military dictatorship, and Carter said the NORAD arrays were powered down for good with any diesel generators in the region deployed elsewhere by Landry. It was a very different world now.

"Try to sleep, Rodney," Jen whispered, squeezing his hand again.

"Yeah, you too." He pulled her close, spooning up behind her.

Under his hand, the baby kicked.

 

~=~=~=~ the end ~=~=~=~

 


End file.
